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And Then Blooms Love

By Sally Jo Pitts

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Chapter 1
Could she steal ten minutes of quiet before life found her? With a devotional book squeezed under her arm and a steaming mocha latte in hand, Emme Matthews crept down the stairs of her living quarters to the flower shop below. First light was ushering a new spring morning into Hamilton Harbor, snuggled in the crook of the coastline on Florida’s Panhandle. She didn’t want to miss the show.
C-r-e-e-e-a-k
“Shh.” She lifted her foot from the squeaky step, and listened. No stirrings came from three-year-old Richie’s room. The plink of water dripping in the work sink downstairs provided customary white noise. Floral fragrances sparred with the musky scents of new carpet and freshly painted walls.
Only two more steps.
But when her bare foot touched the hardwood floor at the bottom of the stairs, a warning alarm shrieked from the refrigerated floral display case. Emme jumped. Hot coffee sloshed on her hand and the devotion book skittered across the floor. She plunked the cup on the work table, ran to the sink, and shoved her hand under the faucet to let the water cool her skin. Sunlight pushed through the front display window, exposing a layer of condensation on the cooler’s glass doors.
“My flower shipment.” The words spilled from her mouth. She snatched the cooler door open. Inside, a blend of sweet odors filled her nostrils. The damp shelves and sides of the refrigerated case were barely cool to the touch. The daisies were holding up, but the daffodils had begun to nod.
“Please, please, please stand tall.” No way she’d give voice to the florist’s dreaded wilt word. Talking to plants had a therapeutic effect, and these flowers needed encouragement. “You can make it. I’ll get help as soon as I can.” She closed the door and ran shaky, damp fingers through her long hair, snagging on the tangles.
The sun spotlighted a plaque on the wall proclaiming her newly purchased Flower Cottage as one of Hamilton Harbor’s cornerstone businesses. Emme swallowed hard. The lingering taste of her forgotten latte coated her dry throat. She had a reputation to uphold. More importantly, she couldn’t squander the tiny foothold she’d carved as proof she could provide a stable home for Richie.
“Who are you talking to?”
Emme whirled about, clasping her hand to her throat. “Richie. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I didn’t sneak.”
The three-year-old rubbed sleepy eyes. Entrusted with his care by her dying cousin, Richie had been Emme’s ward since she held the tiny miracle shortly after his birth.
“Sorry, buddy.” Emme tousled Richie’s messy curls. The pants of his blue-and-red Spiderman pajamas once touched his ankles, but now rested mid-calf. “You just startled me. The flower case isn’t cooling right.”
“You can fix it.”
Sweet boy. He should talk to the daffodils. His eyes homed in on her, tugging at Emme’s heart. He trusted her. So had the bank loan officer, or she wouldn’t be a business owner. But was she worthy of their trust?
She straightened Richie’s cockeyed shirt. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She had repaired so much around the 1930’s Craftsman home, she was on a first name basis at the do-it-yourself store. “This task, I’m afraid, is beyond my ability.”
Emme took Richie’s hand. “Let’s get you some breakfast while I call a repairman.” The stairs groaned beneath her feet. Plans for quiet time with the Lord, and making her van payment on time, unraveled with each step.

“Emme? Pam Boswick here.”
The late morning call stirred Emme’s adrenaline. “Pam, hello.” She pressed her finger to her ear to shut out the clatter created by the refrigeration repairman.
“I heard you took over The Flower Cottage in Hamilton Harbor.”
“You heard right.”
Richie tugged at her shirt and pointed to his alphabet phone, needing a battery.
“That shop has a good reputation. You should do well there.”
She glanced at her drooping flowers and the repairman prostrated in the bottom of the cooler. “I hope so.”
“I have a job smack dab between you and Tallahassee. My usual florist in the area is booked, so I thought of you.”
Emme’s heart-rate did a two-step. In college, she’d worked with the popular event planner on occasion. A job with her might cover the cooler repair. Richie nudged his toy in front of her.
“The order is for a special dinner, March sixth, being hosted at the Davenport’s Colonnades.”
Emme halted her search in the junk drawer for a double A battery. The cooler cackled. Enthusiasm drained and puddled at her feet. Colonnades was the one place she never intended to step foot again. It would be too painful.
“I … uh … I’m afraid I have a conflict that evening.”
“Oh? Too bad. I looked forward to working with you again. Let me know if anything changes.”
“I will. Please keep me in mind for future jobs.”
The call ended. Richie tugged her arm. She spotted a double A, and with trembling fingers snapped the battery into the toy phone.
The repairman rested his rear on his heels and gave his verdict. “I got ‘er runnin’, but from the look of it, you’re gonna need a new fan motor and gaskets. Probably run you three hundred, give ‘r take, and I’ll have to order the parts.”
A weak whistle escaped Emme’s lips. Her cooler was essential. “Please, order what you need.”
With the repairman barely out of the parking lot, heavy footsteps reverberated on the wooden decking leading to the back door. The tall form of Izzie Ketterling, Emme’s floral assistant, entered the room mouth first. “I hope that repairman came here for flowers.”
“Afraid not.” Emme let out a shaky breath. “The cooler needs three hundred dollars’ worth of TLC.”
Richie rushed to Izzie, who knelt to greet him. “Yikes. We could all use a little TLC. Give Auntie Izzie a hug.”
“Cool boots,” Richie said, wrapping his pudgy arms around her.
Izzie smoothed Richie’s hair and tied a bandana at his neck. “Now you’re ready to ride the range with your stuffed animals.”
“Thanks Auntie.” Richie hurried back to the children’s corner. Izzie wasn’t the boy’s real aunt, but Emme loved the sense of family she offered him.
“What’s up with the boots and bandanas?”
Izzie wore a red kerchief tied at her neck, a peasant blouse, a mid-calf A-line skirt, and silver cowboy boot earrings.
“I was in a Western sort of mood today.”
Emme gave her a bemused smile. Friends at church called them yin-yang opposites. Izzie’s short, black, stand-at-attention hair, dark eyes and white blue-toned complexion contrasted with Emme’s long, honey-blonde hair, blue eyes and fair pink-toned skin. Izzie added her inventive skills to what she wore, while Emme focused her creativity on floral design.
“Well, cowgirl, you need to mount up and make hospital and funeral home deliveries.” Emme hesitated and added, “I had to turn down an order.”
“Turn down?” Izzie straightened her posture. In boots, she topped Emme’s five-foot-five by a good six inches. “Have you lost your senses? Who called?”
Emme stood, hoping the action would help give credence to her quick decision. “Pam Boswick.”
“As in highly-sought-after-event-planner Pam Boswick?” Izzie’s voice cranked up an octave.
Emme nodded and jabbed a plastic cardholder pick into the funeral spray. “The job was for the Davenport Plantation.”
“That’s it?” Izzie’s words popped like heat hitting a kernel of corn. “So what if it’s flowers for El Creepo and his mother. You should jump at the chance.”
“Jump? Jump at the chance to be humiliated by the Davenports again? You’ve got to be kidding.” Emme slumped onto her stool.
“No. You must be kidding.” Her “you” came out like the poke of an index finger to the chest. “It’s your chance to shine and show Clifton what he gave up.” Izzie swept her arm in an overhead circle. “We can lasso and brand ‘em with Flower Cottage finesse before they know what hit ‘em.”
Emme rolled her eyes. “Where do you come up with this stuff? This isn’t a rodeo. The assignment is a dinner— a special dinner party at Colonnades. Mrs. Davenport would never stand for me having the job.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“I do.” Pressing the palms of her hands on the worktable, Emme pushed herself up. There was little chance Mrs. Davenport’s “not good enough for my son” rating had changed. “I won’t risk the shop’s reputation by looking bad in front of Pam.”
“What about the little matter of your expenses?”
“I’ve got some savings left.”
“And next month, then what?”
The florist cooler fan belched a metallic clinking noise, bringing Emme and Izzie to silence. The rattle turned to a jingle, then to a rhythmic hum.
Emme started to breathe again. Izzie spoke the truth. She couldn’t afford to turn down jobs, not if she expected to pay her bills and provide for Richie.
But getting involved with the Davenports had nearly destroyed her once—twice might finish her off.
***
Clifton Davenport brought the Kawasaki all-terrain vehicle to an abrupt stop, kicking up a white, puffy cloud from the graveled road outside greenhouse seven. Chalky dust coated his nose and throat as he hurried inside.
“Carlos, you okay?”
Carlos looked small in the midst of the fifty-foot glass enclosure with tables of bedding plants spanning its length. He held a blood-soaked handkerchief against his forearm. Water dripped from a jagged pipe above his head. The droplets plunked into puddles at his feet. Damp, musty potting soil, mixed with sweet smelling overturned petunias, scented the air.
“The ol’ water line broke, but I got the main to the greenhouse shut down. Now the water’s not gushing, I’ll work on the pipes.”
Clifton lifted a brow and shook his head. Lifting the cloth covering Carlos’s arm revealed a long, bloody gash. “I’m more concerned about patching you. Henry can fix the pipe.”
Steering Carlos to the work sink and shelving, Clifton grabbed the first-aid kit. Putting kits in all the main work areas was at least one good decision he had made since taking over plantation management.
“I was just tryin’ to adjust one of the spray nozzles overhead. These bedding plants need to be ready for shippin’ next week.”
“I appreciate your efforts, but hate you got hurt in the process.” Clifton held Carlos’ arm under the water faucet. “Let’s clean this wound first.”
“Okay, Doc.” Carlos, who had worked at the plantation as long as Clifton could remember, gave a wink of appreciation. “Doesn’t seem so long ago you had to be doctored for a bad cut from that crazy chop to your leg during Christmas tree season.”
“You’re right, my motivation for EMT training. Thankfully this cut isn’t too deep. No need for stitches. Looks like a good cleaning with antiseptic and a bandage will do the trick.” Clifton took out cleansing wipes, Betadine, sterile gauze and tape.
“I miss those days when families came here on the Christmas train to pick out a tree,” Carlos said.
Clifton lifted his eyes and tried to read the older man’s expression. Where Carlos was going with this conversation he couldn’t guess, but he did know when Carlos brought up a topic he had a definite purpose.
Carlos peered at Clifton, brows raised, and waited for a response.
“Me too,” Clifton answered.
Beaming, Carlos pressed on. “I especially miss watching you as a kid, trying to impress the little blonde-haired girl who used to come with her parents.”
“You mean Mary Elaine?”
He nodded, wiping at drops of water still clinging to his arms.
“Yup. Your first love.”
Bingo. His objective revealed. Carlos’s comment took him back to his plight as a nine-year-old boy, so smitten by blond, blue-eyed Mary Elaine Matthews, he’d almost chopped his leg off watching her stroll through the rows of Christmas cedars.
Clifton snapped a piece of adhesive tape from a roll and eyed Carlos. “Anyone ever tell you, you’re nosy?”
Carlos’ grin filled his cheeks, turning his eyes into narrow slits. “Maria, every day. Wasn’t that long ago that little girl, became the big girl, you brought home from college.”
Which left him with two scars—one etched on his leg, the other on his heart. “Why the sudden interest in my love life?”
Holding the gauze on his arm while Clifton secured the bandage with tape, Carlos lifted his shoulders. “I guess because I heard there’s supposed to be a special engagement announcement tonight.”
His statement seemed to beg an answer. Instead, Clifton averted his gaze and concentrated on returning the first-aid supplies to the plastic box.
“I always thought you and your childhood sweetheart were well-suited.”
Carlos wasn’t giving up.
“Mark it down. Appearances may not always be what they seem.” But if Clifton was honest, he’d have to admit Mary Elaine was his first love—possibly his only love. Dwelling on that revelation was not the direction his thoughts needed to go. Not with his betrothal to Renata Mendes on the verge of becoming official.
“Well, your new girl … she seems pretty nice. At least she gives that appearance.”
“Indeed, she is.” Clifton snapped the kit closed. “Keep the cut clean. No more strenuous work today.”
“But if I wrap my arm with a plastic bag—”
“Go home, Carlos,” Clifton called over his shoulder. “Take care of your arm.”
Not looking back, Clifton hurried out the greenhouse door with dredged up memories nipping at his heels.

The crunch of the ATV tires on the road accentuated the gritty thoughts crisscrossing inside Clifton’s brain—responsibilities, engagement, Christmas trees, Mary Elaine. Why did Carlos have to bring her up?
Clifton lifted his head and let the breeze flow over his face in hopes of clearing his mind. He moved past the greenhouses to the open stretch of potted lemon, orange and tangerine trees. A field of freshly upturned soil lay ready for new planting. The fragrance of early citrus blooms combined with the rich scent of earth, prodded his sense of pride in the Davenport estate. The land had been in his family since 1821 when Spain ceded the land to the territory of Florida. But his stomach contracted around a cannon ball of shame. He’d sold a portion of the family property to Renata’s father for cash flow.
Arriving back at the office, Clifton climbed the stairs on the outside of the building. The office was housed in the loft of a converted barn. His footsteps echoed on the hard wood floor as he moved past watchful eyes gazing down from the portraits of his forefathers. All sported the straight-bridge Roman nose he’d inherited.
His father’s portrait, at the end of the hall, captured his characteristic pleasant manner with the slight uplift to the corners of his mouth.
“Dad, I wish you were here to advise me on this engagement. I don’t want to mess things up with Renata like I did with Mary Elaine.”
Clifton had proposed to Renata before her father announced his intentions. As a wedding gift, he planned to deed back the plantation property he’d purchased. But as a result, their marriage now smacked of a business obligation.
Were he and Renata really right for each other? A common bond had brought them together. Or was it her ability to secure the Davenport heritage? Should he accept Mendes’s generous wedding gift? What gnawed at him was his inability to grasp his true motivation for marrying Renata. Was it bond or rebound? Doubt pressed his chest, making it hard to breathe.
Scrutiny from his father’s eyes in the portrait penetrated something deep inside Clifton—still prompting him to follow his gut feelings and leave his old impulsive ways behind. His dad had often stated, “Son, you have remarkable God-given instincts. You just have to get your timing right.”
Clifton inhaled the familiar aroma of lemon oil held in the century-old walls. The smell bathed him in memories, punctuated with regrets—regrets for mistakes made on his quest to learn the right timing his dad had talked about.
A phone message on the oak desk, once his father’s, caught his attention. Written in Ms. Peacock’s hand, the note let him know the order for Carolyn’s Flowers got reversed. Needed 100 whites and 50 purple snapdragons.
“What else can go wrong?” Clifton grabbed the yellow invoice orders from the wire basket on his desk and flipped through them. Nothing for Carolyn’s Flowers. He pulled up the business program on his computer and checked recent orders for Carolyn’s Flowers. The last one recorded was the month before.
Snatching up the phone, he punched “two” for the veteran receptionist and bookkeeper. Voice mail picked up, redirecting calls to his business cell phone. Clifton returned the desk phone to its cradle, letting out a deep exhale. “Ms. Peacock has a dentist appointment.”
“Talkin’ to yourself?”
His brother, Gavin, lumbered into the office with bright pink rose corsages in hand. Younger by a year, Gavin stood an inch taller, wore his dark hair a bit longer, and always managed to look neat—his Davenport Nurseries T-shirt tucked into his jeans.
“I think talking to myself is my new normal.”
“I’ve heard the practice is fine until you start answering yourself.” Gavin’s smile faded. “Hate to tell you, but the fan motor in greenhouse three is smoking.”
“Get it turned off.” Clifton barked an abrupt response, his focus still on the phone message from Carolyn’s Flowers.
“I did. Lighten up. I just wanted to let you know. I called Henry about repairs.”
“Good. He’ll be busy.” His words clipped. “He has to fix a water pipe in number seven.” Clifton grasped the message from Ms. Peacock. “Who took this order? I can’t even find an order form for white and purple snapdragons.”
Gavin set the corsages on the desk and reached for the note. “It must have been the day we went to pick up supplies in Tallahassee. I transferred the office calls to Eduardo. He was pruning fruit trees—”
“Doesn’t matter now. We have to correct the mistake.” Clifton raked his fingers through his short, bristle haircut. The office chair creaked as he leaned back. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s just—”
“Pre-engagement jitters?”
“Maybe.” Clifton pointed to the corsages Gavin had laid on his desk. “What are those for?”
“The ladies attending the banquet tonight?” He posed his answer in a way that questioned Clifton’s faculties.
“Oh.”
An uncomfortable burning seized Clifton’s throat. He worked with the business end of plants, trees and flowers, hardly ever thinking of the end use, much less etiquette.
“Renata showed me two dresses she might wear tonight and asked my opinion. I thought these flowers would look nice on the one she decided to wear. Mom’s wearing off-white, so pink works for her too.”
“You even know what Mom is wearing?” Before Gavin could answer, Clifton threw his hands up in surrender. “I concede. You got all the good manners, thoughtfulness, and creative genes.”
Gavin smirked. “Not a big deal. I cut some roses at the house, wrapped the stems with a little floral tape, and stuck a pin in them.” He picked up the corsages and went in the break room. Raising his voice, he said, “I’m putting these in the refrigerator. Don’t forget them when you leave.”
Clifton rummaged through his top desk drawer for a pack of Rolaids. He took two, crunched on the minty relief for his distressed stomach, and shoved the remainder of the roll in his pocket.
“Sometimes I feel like this whole engagement thing is just some weird play. Once the curtain comes down, the drama will be over and I can relax—just be me, whatever that is.”
Gavin walked back in the room shaking his head, his demeanor now solemn. “You’re dwelling on Mendes’s offer to gift back the family property when you and Renata marry. Instead you should be excited about marrying someone special.”
Gavin slumped in the chair in front of Clifton’s desk. “It’s my fault. I should have paid more attention to the risky investments Nix made when he took over after Dad died. Then selling the property wouldn’t have been necessary.”
Clifton stiffened. Leaning forward in his chair, he spoke in earnest. “Fault? It’s my fault for running off to South America leaving Bolton Nix to push us to the brink of bankruptcy. It’s Mom’s fault for not learning the business. It’s Dad’s fault for dying on us. It’s the economy. In the end, it doesn’t matter who’s at fault.”
Clifton pushed back from his desk and stood. “We’ve been over this how many times?” He paced on the floor planks behind the desk on a path so familiar he knew the distance between every knot hole.
“The plan to let Mendes purchase part of our property with a buy back clause seemed the best way to keep the family property intact.” Clifton stopped and pressed his hands to his lower back. “But Mendes muddled everything when he said he planned to give the property back as a wedding gift.” Clifton raised his shoulders and the palms of his hands. “It’s like we’re obligated to marry now. And Renata can’t understand my concern.”
Using the tips of his fingers, Clifton massaged his forehead then grasped the back of the desk chair. “The stress of getting this new computer program working must have addled my brain. I know I should be running around telling everyone how lucky I am to have a beautiful, fun-loving, intelligent girl like Renata willing to marry me.” He sank back into his chair and let out a heavy sigh. “Most guys would give anything to be in my shoes.”
Gavin stared at his brother. “You’re right. Most would want to be in your shoes.”
Clifton glanced at his leather slip-ons, dusty and dirt-encrusted from the muddy greenhouse floor. Being in his shoes right now was a messy business.
 

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